Making Sense
by MissMandu
Summary: Zexion really should stop trying to understand absolutely everything. Zemyx.


**Mακϊŋg ςεŋςε **

Fingers wrapped in golden-toned skin, the slim skeleton made to move in an almost liquid fashion, taut ligaments and tendons and muscles pulling and flicking just as taut strings to create a melody. Maybe it's his hands, first, that moved him—they created something, like how his own fingers turned pages of books and gripped pens to create knowledge in his brain, an ever-expanding library of information (from useless to useful, in varying degrees he rates from one to ten. Things in the _one_ category are things like the Latin/scientific names for several thousand animals and several ten thousand plants, and things like the ten category are things like the fact that they cannot feel, and that they do not have hearts; information that is always conscious, always there, always a thorn in his side) or creating a secret record of his. He has no title for it, like Ansem did, but it is secret, and it is dear to where his not-heart is.

From day one of his heartless being, he has logged everything that doesn't make sense.

So somewhere on day 2,920, he had scribbled (no, not scribbled, only _children_ ever "scribbled"—_he_ wrote, inked, penned, because he was _seventeen_ now, an age that Saix and Xigbar insists is not that old): _Demyx_.

Yes. Demyx does not make sense to him.

How can he laugh like that when his own nerves are always buzzing with the anxiety as their goal gets nearer and nearer? How did he cry when their now-ex-members—brothers—fell from the seats of the Organization and died? How can he have an expression on his face that is half joy, half serenity as he strums something from his giant weapon, or giggle when something resembling comedy occurs in the rare occasion it does?

Most importantly, how does he make Zexion puzzle over him like that?

Blank stares peer over blank covers of books to study him, a biologist over some never before seen specimen of deadly bird inside an indestructible cage. They are in the library, and there is no one there. Demyx is playing something, and maybe he doesn't know that he is there. It would make sense, considering that he would blend right into the parade of books he has created over him, and with the large book propped up, he _could_ appear just like a brick in the wall of a fortress of information. But it kind of irks him, when he thinks that he is invisible to the boy. They have been in the same Organization for two years now, and one might have thought that he would take some notice of him, picked out some kind of trait that makes him stand out from the others.

There is none, to be honest. His most dominant trait is his bookishness and intelligence, something that Vexen also shares. He can create illusions, and he has always fought with his best friend (_books_) in his hand, creating stories that its cousins love to tell to their reprinted versions.

Yes, he is not unique. He is only one more cloaked being in a group of cloaked beings, and Demyx is the only one with some kind of glow to his actions and words.

He watched, carefully, as to not miss a single movement. He is writing something on composition paper, muttering something in that musical voice of his (voices reflect the person), sighing and breathing and gasping with glee when he works out something he didn't like.

He will figure him out. Currently, he doesn't know why it's important he replaced a low C note with a high F sharp note. He doesn't know why his hair is styled that way. He doesn't know why he so irritating continues to persist that they do indeed have hearts as he leaves to complete a mission.

And then all thoughts are gone as the eyes meet his. Demyx, because he is Demyx, does not look away. Instead, he smiles and stands up, stacking all his things to hopefully not keep him company.

He does. Zexion contemplates the plan of leaving immediately, but because of his respect words the bound pages of paper and old ink, he never leaves without putting away everything he had taken out. He will not break one of the few moral rules he had established for himself over a fool.

"Hi," Demyx nods, hair bobbing along. It makes you look at it a second too long, but the owner never notices. "Zexion, right?" The same hands that had played God moments ago dumps all his stuff across from him, in between them. "I was introduced like, two years ago, but we've never really talked." His eyes are blue-green, the color of the ocean when algae has grown in it. "Despite what the others say, I think your weapon's kind of cool. I mean, all I do is make water walk around." He rolls those eyes, Atlantis trapped within them. "Exciting, isn't it?" Even his sarcasm is good-natured.

For the first time in seven eternities, Zexion speaks without thinking. "Why's your hair like that?"

He mentally slaps himself until he remembers it doesn't _matter_ what Demyx thinks of him. It's what he thinks of Demyx that matters; he honestly isn't sure, as one is when all they feel is pure curiosity. It's almost a ravenous _hunger_ that fills him when his brilliant mind turns to the only almost-human one in the Organization.

The blonde, to his surprise, throws his head back and laughs. "I thought I'd give everyone something to remember me by."

He stops himself before he can point out that the musician has too many things to remember by. So he sticks with, after a pause to think, "Melodious Nocturne." He rolls the syllables and the different sounds around him his mouth, tongue teasing the _l_ in "melodious."

"Yup. Lame-ass name." His friendly grin turns sheepish. "I, uh, don't know if you're one of those people who don't like music, but… Could you listen to this thing I made in that corner over there?" A blistered thumb jabs the air in a direction.

He leans back and regains the dignity he has. That is enough of an answer for the other boy, who beams again and picks up his instrument from the floor where he had gently laid it. Zexion had missed the act because he had been too busy trying to think of the right words to describe his build. He has a feeling that his daily personal report will be full of the things he has gathered tonight.

Yes, it is night. It is between dusk and dark, but it is one shade closer to dark.

Pages of messily scrawled musical notes appear with a flourish. There are stains on it, none of which looks like it is protein in any way. Then he recalls he doesn't care about his idiot's love life and instead watches, critically, as he positions the big blue weapon to his frame, almost hugging it.

One by one, the notes are granted life.

On paper, they are just sketches, a plan that has yet to be put into action. In the air, however, they have sprouted wings and fly as far as they can. They all pass through Zexion's ears first, implanting itself into his brain. More useless knowledge: the ridiculously sweet tune of the first song he has really _heard_.

Useless or not, it is pleasant. He must admit it. There are a few places here and there that could use adjustments, and while he is not musical, he is intelligent enough to remember where.

After the improvement suggestions have been made and no sign of his thoughts on it, he excuses himself promptly to return his books to their proper places. When he returns, he is still there, waiting. He smiles at him, white teeth flashing, and his things are more organized than ever. It is too easy to picture him as a Somebody rather than a Nobody. It is far too hard to stop his features from softening as he plays that song again, which is currently titled, "Untitled."

They leave together, and for the first time in a long while, Zexion does not feel empty as he leaves the only sanctuary he has ever known.

-:-

And then he notices—Demyx's hands are actually rather ugly. Not ugly, but not beautiful as he had previous seen them. He is lucky he has no appreciation for physical beauty other than that of the font that the publisher had chosen to use, because he would have been rather crestfallen.

Away from the sitar, the knuckles are a little too big for the rest of the carpals. His fingertips are calluses and rubbed raw, blistered and bruised. He wonders if a guitar pick would work on a sitar. His nails are scraped—not nail polish, because he uses no such thing, fortunately—and the white bone powder rests, refusing to leave by itself. The tips of his nails are also uneven and jagged—perhaps he is a nail biter, or perhaps the strings had just worn away some places while having mercy on others. His cuticles are picked at, torn, slightly bloody, red, and look painful. Useless. Useless. Useless.

They swipe through the air, accentuating points as he tells the tale of a memory he has. All the memories they can pull from the deep depths of their subconscious can be pulled because they had left an emotional impact. Zexion's clearest memory is holding the hand of Ansem the Wise in his right, a bar of ice cream in his left. He will no longer do such silly things.

And then—and _then_—gently, too gently—one rather deformed, worn hands brushes his face by accident when they whoosh through the air in a particularly large swoop. Had he been an inch closer, those jagged nails would have cut through his skin. Maybe he would have bled. Or maybe just an angry red mark would emerge after a pristine white mark faded. But judging the tooth-like quality of those nails, it probably would have been the former. Kind of useful, considering that it may save his cornea. He gives it a rating of four.

Imbecile that he is, Demyx does not notice.

Imbecile that he is, Zexion feels something akin to electricity caress his whole form right underneath his skin. A byproduct from lack of physical affection. Emotional, too. He hasn't talked to someone quite like he had talked to this boy in a long time. How old is he—sixteen? Seventeen? Eighteen? He doubts it matters. The fact that he is taller than him by half an inch, also, does not matter. The fact that he wants to know what that callus feels like does not matter.

Nothing matters except Kingdom Hearts. Useful information, rated a ten.

Always a ghost in front of his eyes. No, not a ghost. A veil, one that is closer to his vision than even his glasses, or the occasional contacts when he wants to see clearly and not risk having those things fall off in battle. Becoming a Nobody has improved him in all places—more focus, without emotions; less pain, with the focus—except for his vision.

Useful information, a four and a half.

Demyx has finished his tale, and is looking at him. "So, Zexion. What do you remember from your past life?"

He will not admit to his strongest memory being such a foolish one. "My first trip to a library. My mother checked them out for me on her account, and the person at the counter thought they were for her."

This is a lie. He does not remember his mother, and he certainly does not remember the person at the counter. He has a vague, misty view of one shelf of books; the most prominent title is the complete selection of Shakespeare. After that, his vision had been blurred.

"Makes sense." Demyx's face muscles pulls and pushes to create what is called a smile. "You really like reading, don't you?"

"No." He looks away; he is suddenly dizzy. Perhaps he has caught a cold. It is not a warm night, and though his immune system is rather healthy, he is not completely safe from illnesses. "I like learning."

A mischievous grin. "You kind of fit the nerd stereotype, don't you?"

A shrug. "I suppose so." Shameless. He is lucky he is not in the time periods he sometimes read about, with beings his age with the minds of children picking fun at him. He would not be emotionally affected, but he rather likes walking down a corridor not being tripped, if such immature things actually do happen.

"You're very serious," Demyx points out, stretching when the hit the outdoors, cool autumn air light and crisp. It smells lightly of flowers and evergreens. He is too busy watching the way his newly found companion's arms and legs move to identify the exact type.

He merely shrugs again.

They do not talk again for a while. The road is made of cobblestone, and stars are in the night sky. Balls of gases and bright lights and heat, the very same things that poets have compared with diamonds and pinpricks.

And then, as they reach the more personal levels of the castle: "Hey, Zex? Can I call you Zex? I'll call you that anyways. Hey, Zex, where do you live?"

There is a still moment. There is no reason why he should not answer: his special place is the library, and his report is hidden not in his room. He summons it forth every night, and then puts it away to a place where no one would dare search for. He has nothing of real importance in his room. Yet he has no reason to answer, either.

They enter the first floor. They could have just transported themselves via portal. It is an unspoken thing that they had both chosen to walk to be in each other's company. "Fifth floor," he hears an idiotic stranger says with his voice. "Second door to the left."

"Alright." A grin is tossed his way. "I'm on this floor, the only bedroom. The least important level, see?"

Something hurts. He does not know what.

Also: potentially useful information. He'll give it a six. He will dwell on it some other time, when he cannot sleep and has time to think over less important facts. "Hmmm."

"Anyways," Demyx continues, the volume and force of his voice ringing through the almost-empty castle, the utter lack of living (?) beings allowing the sounds to remain unabsorbed for a longer amount of time, "How often do you o to the library?"

He should ignore the question, or lie. This question matters—this can help ensure that he will not be with such an idiot again for such a prolonged amount of time. But that same stranger as before says, "Every day, when I have a time."

"Cool." Demyx begins walking towards his room, turning and giving a short wave. "See you around, then, Zex."

The air is too empty.

And perhaps he can grace him with his presence when he's feeling particularly giving.

-:-

And then.

A dream, the only illusion he cannot control.

It's something that other people—Somebodies—would call a happy dream. A good omen, as the more superstitious would say. A jinx, the pessimistic would announce. But to him, it is nothing. He cannot remember anything except for the fact that he feels oddly at peace directly after the dream, something he hasn't felt with his nerves in a long, long time.

He falls asleep again.

-:-

They're at some grassy garden in another world, because there are others in the library who does not approve of Demyx's noises in the haven of information. A week has passed, and something in him has changed. He is less prone to irritation, and a little less aloof. He always had had a lot to say, just a lack of reason to say them. But now, he speaks anyways. Not all the time, of course, but more than usual, a change so slight and so subtle yet so impacting. He is not a one easy to change.

Demyx is playing something new that he did not write himself. It's by some other person. He knows because he had heard it thrice before, drifting through the castle. He had never paid much attention to it. And oddly enough, although it is rather more polished than Demyx's originals, it is significantly less pleasing because he did not see the composer hunched over a desk with a stringed instrument/weapon, because he did not see the agony over a single piece, because he did not lo—

That thought is put on pause when something distracting occurs. The blonde sitarist, never one for personal space, has thrown his head onto Zexion's lap, rubbing tired blue-green eyes. And by blue-green, it means partly blue and partly green, the two colors swirling together, thousands and perhaps millions of tiny yins and yangs. "Hey, Zex," he hears from somewhere far away, "do you like _anything_ besides reading and thinking?"

"No." He closes his eyes. He does not know that Demyx already misses the intelligent light shining from somewhere that is his heart. But if the topic ever comes up, he would say _soul_, because Zexion is too smart to argue with, and he wants his hopes remaining.

"Really? Not even my hea—_soul_-wrenchingly beautiful musical pieces?"

An odd look, the intelligence back with a touch of megalomania and the scream that he is lying. "No."

Demyx cuddles closer to him, and Zexion's breath catches for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he bites out, book in hand, its pages useless against getting back his personal space…

Oh, wait.

The paperback comes down hard on Demyx's rather comical hair, and the younger boy yelps and sits up, holding the very spot he has smacked him with. "What was that for?"

"I have a very important artery you were resting a good ten pounds on," Zexion responds calmly, the book a prop in his façade of uncaring nonchalance, the cool tone steady as it travels the air in vibrations.

"You could have just like, asked."

"You would have ignored me."

Demyx considers this. He grins and laughs. "That is true," he admits.

And this day is especially important because, when he's in his room with Demyx later on, a crushing epiphany reveals itself to Zexion.

The comfort, the ease, the utter relaxation—the leaving of tension, the easy _trust_ that he's so brainlessly bestowed upon Mullet-boy; the softening and the warmth and what he remembers as happiness.

Ah.

He used to love someone back then, and it felt like this.

He loves him. Rating a ten, will affect his life (?) and his being (?) in huge, incomprehensible ways.

He considers bringing the topic up, but decides against it. The rough tree bark is causing little indents and scratches on the Organization's cloak, but he finds he'd easily repair it sooner or later. His hair, too, catches on the roughness, pulling on it in rather unpleasant moments of surprise and stinging pain. Demyx does not lean back like he does—he leans forward—and he is wise enough to know that not leaning would be better for him and his concentration, but the pain in his back if he sits without some kind of support is even more distracting than strands of hair being pulled from his scalp.

And then he understands that it is odd, that you can realize you have fallen in "love" with someone again when you don't have a heart, and that a bumbling oaf has been correct rather than twelve significantly more important beings when he said that he truly, genuinely loved—

"Zexion." He jumps at how the thought has completed itself until he realizes that it had been a voice.

"Yes?" Two slim, pale fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. His glasses slide down. "What is it?"

The hands that are either beautiful or ugly depending on the situation hold either sides of his face (beautiful, so beautiful, and he has never been an appreciation for physical things, because words and thoughts are abstract things) and wind-worn, chapped, scratchy lips that _should_ be disagreeable with his own better-taken care of lips (he's not "girly," as Axel had sniggered; chapped lips were a pet peeve of his) encompasses his own.

When he had learned about kisses, he had given them a rating of one. It would not be of use to him. Now, he wishes he had given them at least a four, a rating high enough that he would have had the heart (heh) to look them up, _learn_ something about them. Anything to have prepared him for this: the shock, the slight confusion (something he never even remotely tolerated), and the loss of what to do except for not pulling back and letting it happen, letting the ball roll.

That took place within a half-second time period. For the other half-second, he recalls all the books he had read when he had been younger about lovesickness and being lovelorn and the antsy impatience as the hero or heroine or someone watched and studied the object of affection if they had any of those affections in their hearts as well, affection custom-made to be gifted to them willingly. He decides he is luckier than the people in those countless books, lucky enough to have something that tells him that it is not one-sided only moments after he accepts that yes, he had been wrong, and that yes, he has fallen in "love." So maybe it's possible without Demyx being correct, because "falling in love" implied that love was something you went to rather than felt, and...

…he really did analyze too much.

Three seconds later, Demyx pulls back. He looks sheepish and guilty. "You looked out of it," he claims.

Zexion hits Demyx again calmly a second him over the head, the recipient crying out in pseudo terror at the replaying of an event, and leans forward to return the gesture.

In the end, Demyx still does not make sense to him. The fact that he had acquired and held his curiosity was puzzling enough, and now he had the concept of "love," whatever it was, to attach to the boy as well. He makes even less sense than before, but maybe it's a clue from the world to Zexion that he really needed to agree grudgingly that he didn't have to understand _everything_, and should just suck it up, toss his intellectual's pride away for a moment, and _enjoy_.

Under an oak tree, with a wild goose (what the heck?) flying somewhere far away and a boat approaching the harbor, two men shared the second of many moments.

**Αƒτεяωơяdς:**

Mucho impressed-ness going on to anyone knows which novel that last scenery was from (from the last sentence, that is).

Hee, my first Zemyx fic, woot. And Zexion's such a philosopher, no?

And. Um. Happy random Thursday in a January!

This is unedited. Because I am a bad person like that.

Reviews are appreciated. :D But not necessary. But really, I'd love to know if this brightened anyone's day, et cetera. :DDDD


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